


The Fish And Its Tail

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, I don't know, Just enjoy the fic, the Lady Stoneheart school of nursing your children, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 17:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Rhaenys pressed the side of her face against the fully rounded middle of the she-wolf, listening with great attention. “I think she is trying to tell me she wants a lemon cake.” Lyanna laughed, her voice slightly raspy. The warm weather did not agree with her.There is always a hope somewhere out there.





	The Fish And Its Tail

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Fish's Tail](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5647018) by [solitariusvirtus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus). 



 

 

 

 

 

 

Her fingers press tighter against the wooden frame, nails digging into the thin layer of paint, leaving crescent moons as testament. Fear fills every nook and cranny of her being and she instinctively takes a step backwards, as if mere distance will save her.

The rider approaches her cautiously, holding a hand up, as if to tell her he will not do her no harm. But what trust can there be between her and a stranger? Yet there is nowhere to go. She has but very few options available to her.

“Lady Stark, you should perhaps leave that shield there,” he advises. At the surprised look on her face, he inclines his head a bit to the side. “Come, my lady, it is best you leave.” His intentions, whatever they are, while not obviously malicious, shall need to be assessed.

Thus it is a refusal that Lyanna offeres. “I cannot,” she finds herself saying, before he can ask a second time. “Your Grace knows I cannot.” She clutches the shield tighter, the paint cracked, small flakes falling off.

What goes unsaid is clear enough. The Prince dismounts and walks towards her. Lyanna fights to hold the shield up. Her arms are growing tired under its constant weight. But even if the shield provides her with scant protection, it is better than nothing.

“My comrades will be returning soon, Lady Stark. I can only help if you are not seen.” He holds his hand out, presumably to signal that she should pass the burden of the shield to him. Lyanna draws back, her back hitting the tall tree behind her. “I will keep this one secret for you, my lady.”

An offer like of which she has yet to hear before. Usually, people are more willing to bare secrets than to keep them. Her brow furrow in confusion, lips parting a smidge as she prepares to question his motives. Yet, as she raises her eyes to his, she can see no treachery in there, nothing aside from the same melancholy that he’s been pouring into his song, that song which had made her weep. It is the same melancholy that haunts her. A tiny ghost, discreet, quiet, but ever constant company to those who know it best.

“A promise costly to keep, Your Grace,” she notes, not without a hint of fear. “The King would have the knight’s head.” And limbs and bones and every bit of flesh.

“The head is the least of the King’s worries,” comes the terse, but undeniably amusing in its bleakness, answer. “Is it not better for the knight to disappear?”

Lyanna pushes the shield towards him in the next moment. “And he will stay gone?” Buried in memory, shrouded in mystery and far, far from the light of fact.

“Forever.” The word pierces through her, much like an arrow, embedding itself into her mind. He takes the shield into his own hands. The weight of it seemed negligible to him. “They will be coming soon. Return; I shall ride further.”

He climbs back atop his mount, strapping the shield to his back, digging his heels in its flanks. The beast shoots forward and Lyanna watches him disappear further and further away, the shield clinging to his back. The laughing weirwood face glances back at her with its strange red eyes full of promise. But what does that promise entail? Lyanna shivers and wraps her arms around herself.

She waits a few more moments before starting to make her way back. Dread still clings to her, a reminder that thoughtless actions often have dire consequences. Though she’s avoided maiming, death and other unpleasant punishments, Lyanna is well aware that she has given something to the Prince which he might use whenever he pleases.

He has promised he would not, that the knight would disappear. Lyanna wonders if he thinks her to be the one behind the helmet. The thought is amusing. If he had voiced it, she might have been tempted to correct him. As he hasn’t, she might as well pretend lack of knowledge.

It is best to just keep silent upon such matters.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

She runs after him, barefoot and dishevelled, skirts raised indecently high. “Rhaegar, please.” Her voice tugs at his heartstrings. “Rhaegar, he is my brother.” He can hear the thickness of it, and wonders if she cries. He doesn’t dare look back. “Rhaegar!”

What he doesn’t expect is for her to tackle him, right there, in the middle of the hallway, Elia somewhere at the other end, holding Aegon to her bosom. But she does and for a moment he loses his footing, sending both of them skidding towards the wall. His shoulder does not thank him.

Lyanna has grabbed onto him, fingers digging into his robes. “Don’t kill him. If you love me, don’t kill him.”

“His words are treason,” he speaks back to her slowly. “Better a clean death on the battlefield than one at the hands of my father.”

She does understand. Lyanna truly does. She has learned since coming to this wretched place that the King is not so much a king as he is a madman with a crown. But still, he holds the power. “I am begging you.” Yet Brandon is her brother. Her oldest brother who is foolish and brave and hers; he is hers. “He is my blood.” Her hand tugs at his, pressing it against her flat stomach, “And our child’s blood as well.”

Her eyes are begging him and, damn it all, he does want to listen. “I make no promises.” He presses a kiss to her forehead and pushes her away before she says anything more that might shake his conviction. And then he is trying to find something that will save them all.

He walks away and forces himself not to look back until he’s reached Elia. His wife‘s dark gaze is trained on the she-wolf, but she speaks to him. “Your armour is ready, Your Grace.” Rhaegar doesn’t wonder at the coldness in her voice. She is not likely to forgive him this, but Elia, as always, endures.

He shouldn’t be asking this of her. Truly, he should not. For it must feel a keener blow to her. Yet he must. “Elia, take care of her.” She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t move. Rhaegar dares just a glance towards Lyanna and wonders, briefly, if Elia will listen to this request. Her troubled face nearly undoes him.

But he cannot stay. Not even for her. Rhaegar nods towards his wife and kisses the top of Aegon’s head. There is nothing left to say at this point. Elia draws away from him and walks towards Lyanna. The Prince does not remain in their presence any longer. He must away.

In the courtyard Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell are already waiting. The King’s orders ( _ _Kill the insolent whelp. How dare he threaten my heir?__ ) are still ringing in his ears. Somehow he must save Brandon Stark’s life. He must and not only for Lyanna. House Stark is unlikely to aid him if he should kill their heir. Rhaegar sees Ser Jaime from the corner of his eye and beckons the forth.

“Your Grace, take me with you,” the boy says. It’s as if he seeks to prove himself. Rhaegar curses his father’s choice once more. Jaime is skilled. But he is just a child. “I can fight.”

“No one doubts that,” he hears himself saying. “But I would ask something more important from you on this day than to fight. I ask you to protect those who remain here.” He cannot say this in a more direct manner. “Do you understand what I am asking?”

The child doesn’t. But surely Ser Darry and Prince Lewyn do. The second may be counted on to protect his niece. And Ser Darry will likely understand better than Jaime Lannister what is being asked of him. “Rely my orders to your sworn brothers.”

He mounts his steed and pats the beast’s neck with a deft hand. “Easy, easy,” he whispers to the animal whose hooves have begun beating at pliant earth. The tension cannot be helping.

“Your Grace,” Arthur calls his attention away from a retreating Jaime, “what do you plan to do? Brandon Stark does not look as if he might listen to words.”

“That is because he shan’t. I will fight him, ser, as I must.” Though the thoughts doesn’t sit well with him. Rhaegar doesn’t fear the younger man. But he resents the actions of Lyanna’s brother all the same.

“Then we should away, Your Grace,” Whent advises. “There’s little sense in putting this nasty piece of business off any longer.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brandon Stark looks fairly ready to jump at him as soon as he dismounts. But that will not do. Rhaegar holds one hand up. “Brandon Stark, I do not wish to fight you,” he says, speaking over the sound of chainmail rattling and horses snorting. “Give up now and you may keep your life.”

Assured of himself in a way only a fool could possibly be, Brandon laughs at the offer. “The great Prince of Dragonstone is craven, is he? I will fight you and I will mount your head upon a spike for what you’ve done to my sister.”

He toys with the idea of letting the Stark heir know exactly in what fashion his sister begged him to take her away at the tourney. But decided against it. Better that the fool believes what he wills. It will give him the strength and conviction he needs to survive. “You do not forfeit then?”

Brandon spits at his feet viciously, “Nay. Shall we fight, or do we sit here until the dusk arrives?”

There is nothing more to be done. Rhaegar mounts his horse once again and draws a bit away. He signals for the Kingsguards that have joined him to pull away and leave them space to fight. Brandon’s companions have formed a semicircle behind him. Rhaegar watches as the bold wolf climbs his own mount and draws out a fine sword. ‘Tis not Valyrian steel, but ‘tis good steel.

He has competed against Brandon in the joust. Rhaegar’s memory serves him well, at least well enough to remember that this particular Stark is hot-headed, impulsive and has injured his left side as he fell off his horse. Likely his balance will still be off. He almost wishes the honourable one had come. With that one, he might have stood a chance at discussing the matters before it came to blows. That one might have considered his words before yelling out for the head of the King’s son.

It takes a moment for them to be ready. There is no nod, no outward sign. Rhaegar tenses, heels digging into the flanks of his horse and the beast takes flight, galloping towards his enemy. Brandon wields a sword. The attacks he can deliver are of a closer range, so Rhaegar should have another advantage in that.

The sound of metal scarping against metal pierces the heavens as the blades meet. There is a great deal of force behind Brandon’s attack, enough of it to momentarily upset Rhaegar’s balance. Sensing the opportunity the Northerner makes to strike his blade to the Prince’s shoulder. Luckily for him, however, Rhaegar manages to deflect the blow and push back into the opponent.

They continue through with a series of like attacks, neither managing to gain the upper hand for some time. Brandon is more than stubborn, but Rhaegar is determined to win. The prophecy is somewhere at the back of his mind in all this. How strange it is that until not too long ago his motivation had been tied to ancient words. Now the very same motivation lies at the feet of a living, breathing creature who has turned from means into purpose without him having realised it.

The breakthrough comes when he least expects it. Rhaegar’s horse takes a blow to one hind leg and Brandon prepares to launch another attack. Only he forgets, for the briefest of moments, to watch his opponent. The reason will likely never be known to him or any other man but Brandon. And Rhaegar uses that to his full advantage. Bringing his lance down, he embeds it into armour and possibly flesh. The cut is not lethal. But it must hurt and it will surely slow Brandon down. The heir of Winterfell lets out a cry of rage and pain. He holds his sword out and makes to cut the Prince, but Rhaegar is quicker in this. He knocks the weapon out of the way and jumps off his own horse, arms wrapping around his opponent to take him down as well.

It works. They roll together to the ground, one trashing, the other holding. When they finally stop, blood is pouring out of Brandon’s cut and the man’s sword has actually managed to find a weakness in the Prince’s armour and injure his leg. Rhaegar catches the man’s head between his hands and knocks it violently to the ground a few times until Brandon stops moving about.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

She is still weeping when he returns limping, his lady wife by his side. Rhaegar looks at the woman-child and this fear pierces his chest bereft of plate of armour. He should comfort her, but these tears leave him ill at ease and slightly sick to his stomach.

“Enough, my lady,” he manages gently, hand reaching out for her instinctively.

But she she-wolf is quick and in her grief, she deals him far harsher treatment than he would have expected. The sudden weight of her pressing into him leaves his body careering backwards. And then she’s kicking at him with vicious little fists, uncaring of where her hits land. His led pulses with pain, the ache a thorny whip dragging across his skin.

Elia is not far behind, her hands grabbing at the other woman’s shoulders, pulling her away with a gentleness that Rhaegar does not understand. The curious matter is that once she’s no longer latching onto him, the she-wolf is reduced to a blubbering mess.

“Leave us, lady wife,” Rhaegar requests of the woman who is still so very quiet. Silent as a grave.

The cold look in her eyes chills him, but he maintains the request until her slippered feet are no longer heard on the creaking floors.

“You promised,” the accusation flies towards with the accuracy of an arrow.

“I promised to try,” he corrects.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The rope swings gently with the heavy weight, silk twisting.

Rhaegar’s eyes are upon the slightly elevated feet, toes peeking from behind the hem of a dark curtain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He cradles the small, cold hand with the greatest of cares, as though too much pressure might break the bones beneath the pale film of skin. He can see the veins underneath, they are blue, frosted-over at the tender touch of the Stranger. Elia clears her throat softly. He does not look up. This must be the hundredth time she has done it. “You cannot sit with her for the rest of eternity,” his wife points out. “She’s dead, husband. She’s gone.”

“Not now, Elia.” His fingers curls just a fraction tighter around Lyanna’s hand, lovingly. She is so pretty, looking as though she were asleep. The rope has cut into her flesh though. The thin blackening line a testament. The master told him the loop had been too big. Big enough that suffocating had taken longer.

“You cannot mourn her forever,” his wife dutiful reminds him. She means well. He wishes he could listen. Might be stop feeling as though he’s been betrayed. He hasn’t been. He knows that much. “Please. I am begging you. I need you here.”

“I am not gone, lady wife.” She sighs and her fingers wrap around his shoulder.

“You are.” He is not. “This was her choice. We cannot change what happened.” His jaw locks in pained tension. Rhaegar looks over his shoulder at the mother of his children. “Some people cannot bear the harshness of life. She seemed strong. I was in awe of her. Mayhap her strength simply ran out.”

He nods It is not so much agreement as it is resignation. He releases Lyanna’s hand, turning more fully towards his erstwhile companion. “Leave well enough alone. I shan’t sit here much longer, I promise.” It is her turn to nod. Just as well that she does. “You look tired. Take your rest, lady wife.”

Elia agrees to leave on the condition that he will follow in a few hours at most. His agreement comes as encouragement to her departure. Once alone, Rhaegar returns his attention upon the eternally slumbering Lyanna. Drawing closer, he brushes his fingers through her hair. It seems to him its shine has dimmed. “I had to, Lya. My father would not have granted him a clean death. You told me you understood. But then I am the fool here; had I trusted you with the plan,” Rhaegar trailed off. “I wish you had not left with such sorrow in your heart.”

He is much certain there would have been more than enough voices making her miserable without her brother adding to the trouble. But that she would have endured. He is certain still, despite it all. “Your father shall be here soon. I do not want to give you to him, but I suppose blood trumps all.” About as much as he could delay, he has. But soon enough he will have to allow them to cut her open. His thoughts turn to the child she had claimed to carry. He’d seen his fair share of half-formed beasts in his life. Not a human though. And they would drag the poor thing out, throw it away. They had to prepare her, after all, for the journey North. “I reckon you’ll be comfortable in the crypts of Winterfell, surrounded by kin. I will come to you, when I can.” Strange to speak to her as though she might hear, as though she cared.  

But here he is. Speaking to her. Combing his fingers through her dark tresses, ignoring the fact that she is dead as the dragons. His head aches with the knowledge. Rhaegar will not be moved for the time being though.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I know of a way, the Essosi priest ventures shyly. Or is is blearily? The man has just returned from whichever ditch he’d found himself in. He no doubts fights a very stubborn headache by this very moment. Rhaegar is not sympathetic. He is intrigued, though. His red robes tremble as he walks. “But there is no guarantee the Lord will listen. Even those whose faith is great are at times answered in another manner.”

On his feet, stalking towards the slightly rotund figure of the priest, Rhaegar’s mind, half-way made up, swears a great temple to the foul god as long as he has what he wants. “You came to these lands with hopes of making my father a believer. You have seen the manner of fire he loves. I am not my father though. Mayhap you should direct your attention where it may flourish.”

“Say the Lord of Lights grants this boon,” Thoros of Myr speaks, his eyes turning upon the woman lying abed. “What shall Your Grace offer in return. A life is a wondrous thing. Fragile, so very delicate, but beyond price, is it not?”

“Beyond price?” Lyanna’s life certainly is. Rhaegar looks the man in the eyes when the priest faces him. “Find one, priest, and I will gladly pay it. Whatever price is required of me. Should you succeed.”

“If I should fail?”

That he does not even wish to consider the notion. Thus he lifts a hand to silence the man. “Prepare what it is you need. Do what you know. And pray your god he does not fail you.” He will be praying as well. To the Stranger. Not to guide Lyanna through her journey. His prayers will be focused on halting whatever progress she had made thus far. And he hopes beyond hope that some miracle will ;et it happen, will allow her to turn back from the path she’d stumbled upon.

Fancy, he suspects. But he is willing to try and that ought to be more than enough.

“When the sun falls, Your Grace, I shall need to be alone with her. Until then no one is to touch her.”

“That can be arranged.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He is a charlatan trying to profit off of an innocent’s death,” Elia protests, dark eyes flashing dangerously. “The Lord of Light is a figment of someone’s sick imagination. Dorne has hard of this false god. There are temples there for this so called saviour. I tell you, he will desecrate her. Do you want that?”

“He won’t. Not while I am there. Trust that if you will not aught else.” She hisses in displeasure and plops down upon the bed.

“I kept quiet when you brought her here. I took her ‘neath my wing when you ordered it. I have done my best to keep her in good spirits. And now you ask me, after all this, to close my eyes to a wrong being done to her? Lord Stark will be furious.”

“Lord Stark, if he has a lick of sense will fall to my feet in gratitude. And you shan’t attempt to dissuade me any longer, lady wife. I have listened to as much as I can bear.”  

She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “You will regret this.”

“We shall see about that in due time.” A feeling of foreboding tightened his stomach into a painful knot.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

He clenches his fist tightly, watching as the priest leans over Lyanna’s prone form, fusing his lips to hers, the chant dying down. Every last one of his nerves screams to catch the man by the back of the throat and drag him away. Alas, all he can do is try to keep a straight face. He manages, more or less, but still cannot keep still.

Moving forth, Rhaegar approaches the bed as Thorors steps back, releasing Lyanna. He is by her side as quick as a flash, taking her limp hand in his, trying to determine whether she had warmed. But nay, her skin is marble-cold, white as milk and newly fallen show. It does not feel like a second loss. It feels so much worse. As though he’s fallen into a gaping black abyss, careering down, down, down, towards some monstrous depths. There is no end in sight though. Only darkness, all-engulfing, heart-wrenching darkness, which twists around him with tendrils cold and biting, the sting of their hold maddening. Not powerful enough to have him screaming, not nearly harmless enough to ignore.

His last hope. Gone. All gone.

When he took her down from the end of the rope, Rhaegar had cradled her to him, holding the body together as best as he could. He’d been shouting for the maesters, for someone, for anyone. And the keep had thrummed with activity. Pycelle had twisted her this way and that after prying the body from his arms, tsked and declared that he could, regrettably, do naught for her. She was dead. She is dead.

Rhaegar hadn’t allowed himself to weep. Not even when they had covered her, hiding her face from the sun and the light. But he is crying now. Not in that crazed manner which songs so oft presented for grief. Tears still streak down his face in quiet rivulets, droplets falling onto the cool skin of the she-wolf. He daren’t lift her to him again. He would not be able to let go. He might not be able to stop himself from screaming in frustration. But he wants to hold her. Because this is the final parting. The last time he may hold her whole and as close to living as she will ever be.

His hands tremble.

And he hears it.

Soft, wheezing breath. Coming from beneath.

His eyes snap open and he looks down, half-horrified, half-hopeful; frozen nevertheless. Arrested in the knowledge that she breathes.

She breathes.

Her eyes, now the colour of cooled ash, stare up into his and it seems to him as though realisation slowly dawns upon her.

“Nay.”

His arms are wrapped around her before she can say any other word, and she does not resist. But she is speaking, her voice carrying over. The mournful notes are what cause him to look up. “’Tis not fair that he is dead and I live.”

“Out!” he orders the priest, the man who is pressed to the wall and presently hurrying along to the door. Once he hears the creaking and groaning and slamming, he shushes Lyanna. “You should have waited. I would have told you, he is not dead.”

“The body-”

“Why do you think his face has been bashed in?” They are both whispering.

“But I-” Her skin is still cold. As though no amount of fire might warm it ever again. A sob catches in her throat.“The child. I wanted to take it with me. You took something of mine.”

That he cannot give her back. So Rhaegar wraps her in his arms once more. And simply clings to her. And wonders, wonders at the power of the Lord of Light. He can feel the tree of greed growing within him. But how could anyone breathe life into aught which is not even in possession of a soul? “It does not matter. None of it matters. You are here. It is enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rickard Stark gapes at them. Or rather at her. Lyanna, still serene, brings her hands together upon her lap. “How is this possible?” A servant scurries by, having barely managed to place the iced milk upon the table with the distance she puts between herself and Lyanna. But the she-wolf does not mind. She does not mind much of anything these days. Rhaegar suspects it is shock. She wanted to punish him. ”I thought I had surely lost my only daughter.”  

“You’ve your good-son to thank for it.” Her answer is short, smooth. Almost flawless in delivery. Except that her tone is flat. Rhaegar still holds her hand, lacking his fingers through hers. The skin is cold, but it no longer bothers him. She squeezes back, the only clue so far that she is truly there, with him. “But pray let us not speak of that.” She shies away from the subject yet again, as she has done with him, with Elia, with Pycelle. The priest has her ear though. They speak in the gardens. He gives her that. For there is little else he can give by this point. “I wonder, why do you come alone? Surely Benjen wished to join you.”

Her father offers a tight smile. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Ned is yet with Lord Arryn. I thought it best to be cautious.” As though the worst has yet to roll over them. Rhaegar does not point out that much. Instead he excuses himself, conjuring some forgotten matters he must deal with.

Elia is in the gardens when he arrives there. She is walking with Rhaenys and he falls into step with them. His lady wife looks at him from the corner of her eye as their daughter greets his effusively. Rhaegar returns the child’s enthusiastic words and sends her ahead, hunting for the first leaf of the season.

“I worry. She is not the same.” He nods. She is not entirely the same. “Her father will likely take her back. Or if you do not wish to phrase it so, simply have it put that she is to visit. You need only neglect to call for her return.”

“You already know that I shan’t.” She nods and sighs and takes hold of his arm. “Try to get over your misgivings. She might well be a tad different, but not so much that she is a different person. There is the shock of it to consider.”

“I do not wish to speak about her child. We may speak of our children if you want.”

“What of our children?” He looks ahead, catching sight of Rhaenys who is speaking to one of the gardeners. “Is there aught I need to know?”

“Nay; of course not. They are well, as you can see.” He definitely could as far as Rhaenys was concerned. “You will come to the great hall this time? The King is growing impatient.”

“Aye. I will be there.” She smiles and nods her head in approval.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is much coughing and curses pouring out of the King’s mouth. Arthur is trying to hold the flailing madman, but even with Jaime Lannister there to aid him, the task seems nigh impossible.

The second Targaryen to choke on lamprey pie.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is a miracle. It is a night terror. Rhaegar eyes are pinned to the thickening waistline. To the small bump, rising proudly, in defiance to the fate its mother had prepared for it. “The Great Maester was baffled, but admitted that indeed, it can belittle other than a babe.” She is still so calm. So very collected. “It is the same child, you know. Visenya,” she murmurs, the name a shadows upon her lips. “The Lord of Light has been kind to us.”

He reaches a hand out and pressed his fingers against the rise. “Very kind.” Visneya, or something else? Rhaegar almost shudders.    

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaenys presses the side of her face against the fully rounded middle of the she-wolf, listening with great attention. “I think she is trying to tell me she wants a lemon cake.” Lyanna laughs, her voice slightly raspy. The warm weather does not agree with her.

“I think she has had more than enough lemon cakes.” She nevertheless takes the offering when Rhaenys pushes it into her hand.

“I know my sister. She does want another lemon cake.” Rhaegar watches Lyanna bite into her lemon cake and pat Rhaenys’ head. He smiles at them and returns to the letter he’s been reading. The letters dance before his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

     

 

 

 

 

 

“He belongs to the Lord of Light.” Rhaegar stares at the tiny bundle of flesh upon whose soft skin Lyanna trails her finger. Not a Visenya. “Would you like to hold him?”

“You have already decided?” She blinks up at him and offers the child. “Have you considered asking me if I will give my son to the Lord of Light?” He touches a finger to the boy’s dark curls, marvelling at the softness. So very fragile, so very priceless. A fire burned beneath his skin.  

“Does the mountain bow before the might of man? He was born for it, Rhaegar. Remeber that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's not really a new fic if the concept is the same. You might recognise the first half from a previous story. This is a reendition.
> 
> Update - like 5 minutes later - I didn't actually proof read this, so I'm apologising here for that. I'm lazy. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed this short, short thing. Anyway, have fun.


End file.
